d
quickened from a walk to a run and from a swaying run to a swift,
labyrinthine pace, which has no name in English, and which I can only
liken to the wiggling of a green thing under leafy covert. The coiling
and circling and winding of the dancers became bewildering, and in the
centre, laughing, shouting, tossing up his arms and gesticulating like a
maniac, was the white man with the pointed beard. Then the performers
broke from their places and gave themselves with utter abandon to the
wild impulses of wild natures in a wild world; and there was such a
scene of uncurbed, animal hilarity as I never dreamed possible. Savage,
furious, almost ferocious like the frisking of a pack of wolves, that at
any time may fall upon and destroy a weaker one, the boisterous antics
of these children of the forest fascinated me. Filled with the curiosity
that lures many a trader to his undoing, I rose and went across to the
thronging, shouting, shadowy figures. A man darted out of the woods full
tilt against me. 'Twas he of the pointed beard, my _suspect_ of the
Hudson's Bay Company. Quick as thought I thrust out my foot and tripped
him full length on the ground. The light fell on his upturned face. It
was Louis Laplante, that past-master in the art of diplomatic deception.
He snarled out something angrily and came to himself in sitting posture.
Then he recognized me.

"_Mon Dieu!_" he muttered beneath his breath, momentarily surprised into
a betrayal of astonishment. "You, Gillespie?" he called out, at once
regaining himself and assuming his usual nonchalance. "Pardon, my
solemncholy! I took you for a tree."

"Granted, your impudence," said I, ignoring the slight but paying him
back in kind. I was determined to follow my uncle's advice and play the
rascal at his own game. "Help you up?" said I, as pleasantly as I could,
extending my hand to give him a lift; and I felt his palm hot and his
arm tremble. Then, I knew that Louis was drunk and this was the fool's
joint in the knave's armor, on which Mr. Jack MacKenzie bade me use my
weapons.

"Tra-la!" he answered with mincing insult. "Tra-la, old tombstone!
Good-by, my mausoleum! Au revoir, old death's-head! Adieu, grave skull!"
With an absurdly elaborate bow, he reeled back among the dancers.

"Get up, comrade," I urged, rushing into the tent, where the old trader
I had questioned about my canoeman was now snoring. "Get up, man," and I
shook him. "There's a Hudson's Bay spy!"

"Spy,